Flint
by girlwiththefandomtattoo
Summary: Every revolution begins with a spark... An Enjolras x Éponine Hunger Games AU.
1. it won't be long

_**FLINT**_ - an enjolras x éponine hunger games au  
they say every revolution begins with a spark

so this is pure crack. excuse me. i'm not really even going to follow Hunger Games lore to the letter (re: reasons for Reaping entries), but hopefully everyone will be in character. so, yeah. hop in, there's gonna be plenty of tears along the way. rating for cursing, violent, and sexual content in future chapters.  
also: sorry for my shitty writing style.

* * *

_**i. it won't be long**_

Her name was in the Reaping 63 times.

It was seven years worth of Tesserae for five people, as well as numerous petty offenses. You know, like pickpocketing and truancy and that one time she dumped a bucket of slop on the head peacekeeper.

Well, it was worth it anyway.

(She said that to herself when she looked at the scars.)

_Éponine Thénardier_ was written on 63 slips of paper in a giant glass bowl.

But she was 18. It was her last year in the Reaping and odds were, chances should be, that she was safe. I mean, if the Grim Reaper intended on plucking her so quickly, he probably would have done it by then.

(Hell, he probably would have stolen her breath that morning the head peacekeeper sliced out his retribution from her back. Or the night before she discovered you could eat bark, if you really needed to.)

But he hadn't.

So, that's why Éponine stood out in the square on Reaping Day, wearing her Sunday best, chewing on a lock of hair and holding her sister's trembling hand. The only thing really on her mind was the basket of apples she planned on pinching off the Mayor's porch as soon as this bullshit was over.

That's why they had to call out her name three times before she realized her life was over.

"—Miss Thénardier," a purple haired man was saying, shielding his eyes against the sun, "I know you're here, why don't you step up, dearie and —"

It didn't feel real, not really, as she shook off Azelma's hand and walked down to the grand stand. Everything sounded too quiet, too silent for real life. Why couldn't she hear the wind? Why couldn't she hear her shoes against the dirt? The collective sigh of relief from anyone who wasn't her?

She was at the stage before she really knew what happened, being yanked up the stairs by the man with his purple coif and eyebrows less than two centimeters from his hairline. He mumbled something to her — "Okay, just smile now, dearie." — as he wheeled her around. Then she was face-forward, staring at hundreds of dead-eyed faces.

"Congratulations!" He exclaimed as his affected Capitol tongue rolled the r's into oblivion, "Here, District 12, is your newest representative and I am just sure she will do you all proud! Won't you, Miss Thénardier?"

Her response was to continue staring into the sea of bored spectators, the Purple Haired Man attempting to tuck her hair into some sort of presentable shape. It wasn't surprising to her, the dead eyes and the dull faces, stripped of anything close to sympathy. The Capitol had taken 146 other tributes to the Hunger Games. Éponine was just a conman's daughter, not much better than him herself. Taking her would only do District 12 a favor, no doubt.

The only ripple in that spiritless ocean was her parents. Her mother let out a sob that nearly shook the birds from the trees around the square. Her father placed a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder as his own silent tears fell.

Éponine rolled her eyes. Drama Queens. They'd been telling her for years how she should do the family a favor and volunteer. It'd be one less mouth to feed, you know.

It was funny. They never seemed to say that when they were forcing her to sign up for each and every Tesserae she was eligible to take.

After the Purple Haired Man was done attempting to pretend that Éponine had won some major prize, he pulled a name from the boy's bowl. He opened it and smiled his plastered Capitol smile and called out: "And District 12's boy Tribute will be Corbett Montparnasse!"

And Éponine laughed.

She didn't chuckle. She didn't giggle. She laughed until tears welled up in her eyes and her stomach hurt. When Montparnasse finally made it up the stage next to her, he smirked and whispered from the corner of his mouth:

"You're an asshole."

(Welcome to the 64th Annual Panem Hunger Games.)

(May the odds be ever in your fucking favor.)

* * *

It didn't matter how long they waited for her parents to show for their last goodbyes, she knew they wouldn't be there. No, everyone would be falling over backwards to shower sympathy upon the poor couple who didn't even have time to kiss their daughter farewell before the Capitol stole her away to the Games.

And she really didn't care about them anyway.

But when two peacekeepers escorted Azelma and Gavroche in, she nearly broke in two. Azelma looked scared, all big wet eyes and quivering lips, and Gavroche simply looked confused. He yanked his arm away from the guards as soon they entered the room.

And they all just kind of stood there, staring at one another. Arms to stiff at there sides. Mouths open, but no sound. What was there to say? Sorry, they've decided to serve you up for some District 3 brute to rip your face off. Not much we can do about that. But sorry.

Azelma looked so small next to the guards, twisting the hem of her dress and looking at the floor. She hadn't gotten her growth spurt yet, her legs weren't gangly and long like Éponine's yet. Yet. Éponine would never live to see the beauty of a woman's grace her sister's features, turn her lips to cherries and her smile to a dark, knowing thing.

"You know that dress of mine you like?" Éponine asked as she kneeled down, holding out her hand. Azelma grabbed it, lightly, hooking her finger's between Éponine's own.

"The one with the ribbon?"

"Yeah," she squeezed the little hand, "you can have it." The girl's answer came as a hiccup and Éponine bit her lip to focus on staying dry eyed. It wasn't much, but it was really all she had. And Azelma knew it, judging by the soft tear that made it's way down her sunken cheek.

Gavroche watched on, eyes hard despite a twitching lower lip. She had no idea what to say to him. There were no delusions. They all knew where she stood. The impossibility that they would ever see her again.

"Take care of your sister, okay?" And he nodded, but it was really an obvious request that he probably wouldn't heed. Gavroche had given himself to the streets long ago and Azelma still chased after their mother's skirts. But maybe he'd try. Maybe for Éponine he'd try.

Then peacekeepers decided their time was up and grabbed the two children to cart them away. Azelma squeaked when her hand was ripped away from her older sister's, her ragged fingernails ripping a red trail into Éponine's palm. But Gavroche growled, "Wait, get off me, prick," before slipping from the grip with a practiced duck. Everyone stood motionless while he shook his arm to straighten out a rumpled sleeve.

Her little brother. The bravest person she knew.

"'ey Sis," he turned, eyes blazing over his shoulder, "make it count, yeah?"

With that the peacekeepers picked the pair up and slammed the door shut. It was deafening. Like the lid to a tomb. Crash. Slam. Darkness. His words echoed around the peeling cement in her head.

_Make it count._

_Make it count._

The tears came, hot and silent, and she gasped, clutching her chest as she was finally allowed to melt into the shadowed recesses of the last sliver of District 12 that would ever lie under her feet.

She didn't know how to handle this.

She didn't know how to survive this.

And she certainly didn't know how to make it count.

* * *

"I think this is worth it," Éponine said to her fellow Tribute, laying out on the table in the train's dining car. Her usually hollow stomach was now a bulge, filled with so much over-rich Capitol food she'd probably need to be sick in a few minutes. She laid on her back as she sucked marinated meat off a chicken wing, hair fanned out around her. "I just ate more than I have in the past two months. I could die now. I could die happy."

The train was clean and immaculate and indulgent in a way that she was prepared to lose herself in. Not a dulling of the pain. No, merely an offering to a child with no future. A life traded for a few days of square meals and luxurious fabrics. She'd said her goodbyes, right?

Montparnasse sat in a chair next to her, daintily peeling off pieces of a raspberry danish to pop into his overly plush mouth. The room was vacant, save for the pair of tributes and their appetites. The portly handler went running when Montparnasse sent a knife flying at his face for suggesting their table manners were lacking. Then the Purple Haired Man became the Sweaty Red Faced Man.

Their "mentor" had yet to show up, but something about the painfully bare liquor cabinet gave Éponine the distinct feeling he didn't plan on imparting much wisdom upon them.

Not that it would do her any good.

"Don't you think, Montparnasse?" She leaned up on her elbows to meet Montparnasse's gaze.

"I'm not dying," he said in a matter of fact tone, looking down casually at his pastry.

Éponine chuckled. "Yeah, okay."

"I don't have to explain myself to you." Montparnasse grimaced, only slightly, his lips pressing into line and his eyebrows dropping.

"Yeah, okay."

They ate in silence after that. Silly self absorbed boy and his delusions. He could have them. She had no contract that bore her to reminding him of history and fact. District 12 didn't win the Games. It's just the way things were. A lifetime of sleeping in the dirt hardened Éponine, made her a realist. Sure, she lived for the stolen moment her dreams wrapped her in warmth and spun her toward the stars, but that's all they were. Dreams.

A resounding clatter of metal against wood when Montparnasse stood up, graceful in his conceit. She raised an eyebrow and watched him move across the room. "Where are you headed?" He continued on, content to pretend like he didn't hear her.

"Hey, 'Parnasse," Éponine sat up, brassy voice a tone impossible to ignore. "I asked you what you're doing."

He didn't turn around, but he paused in the doorway for the barest of seconds, casting out a begrudging line to a flailing girl.

"If you must know," he scoffed, "I'm going to check out the competition."

* * *

Arrogance and vanity demanded Montparnasse watch the Reaping tapes from the bottom up. That meant starting with District 12 and watching their lives end in high definition.

It wasn't really something Éponine needed to see again. On a screen. Staring herself in the face. The whole thing had been an out-of-body experience. A nightmare where a girl that looked like her, with the same long, lanky legs stood up on the stage. Her hair a dark, unruly scribble against a distressingly sunny sky.

And the girl looked scared until her partner in crime joined her, this good looking boy with a charming sneer and a brutal glint in his eye, and she set about laughing.

Then they cut a troublesome picture, at least.

Maybe District 11 would be scared of her, with their fields and their calloused hands and their freckle-faced tribute. That freckle flecked boy who walked forward with his chin high despite the clear sheen to his eyes.

Or it could be District 10 or 9 or 8 or 7 or 6. The endless parade of criers and howlers and catatonic bodies ushered forward by their own feet. Betrayed by muscles conditioned to obey obey obey.

District 5 was too busy to worry about a mad shadow girl lost in the sun over the coal mines. No, District 5 was swept away by a young man walking with a dignified gait, silent tears slicking his cheekbones, jaw clenched tight until he reached the stage. Then the Mayor's daughter had to be removed from his arms by three peacekeepers, the cherub cheeked female Tribute and the Mayor himself as the young man crumpled to the ground.

"What a show," the audience cooed. "What a show."

Perhaps the bumbling duo from District 4 would tremble at the thought of the gauche curve of that dark haired girl's lips as they tripped to the stage, checking their skinned knees and scraped elbows like their skin was certain to fall apart. Perhaps the willow limbed boy from District 3. Or the broad shouldered girl from District 2 and her peacock of a male counterpart, Career status underlined in their sure step.

Or District 1's solemn, bespectacled female Career; she walked forward slowly, the weight of the world laying heavy across her shoulders. 'Atlas' was written in the fine line of her lips. 'Athena' shone in the heavy lids over her pensive gaze.

But not him. Not the boy from District 1. He had a wildfire in his eyes and a winter thunderstorm in his voice. "Me, I volunteer as tribute," he said and the whole arena gasped. Wilted where they stood. Turned to the friend at their side and said "Him?"

And he said "Yes" with the way he stalked to the grand stand. With the way the floor burned under his feet. The way the atmosphere crackled as he passed through, blonde hair falling wild across a harsh brow.

"Yes", his devastating glare said to the camera. To the world.

(Yes, I have come to burn your throne to the ground.)


	2. til i'm dead and gone

Special thanks to those of you who just pointed out the HUGE formatting screw up (and also thanks to good old ff*net for making that happen!).

* * *

_**ii. til i'm dead and gone**_

She left the train a few days later, the purple bags erased from beneath her eyes and her stomach filled out. There was still more skin hanging from her bones than fat or meat, but there was a certain softening in her face, however slight it was. Nothing that anyone who didn't already know her could see.

But now she was laid out on metal table, the surface cold against knobby bones, her skin to jutting and protruding in angular ways. A thin paper dress was draped over her, pretending to hide her body but really doing nothing more than outlining it in a pale blue.

The room was large and sterile. Large enough to accommodate all twenty-four Tributes and their stylists. She was closed off from the rest by a curtain, powder blue among the surgical steel of the decor, being prodded and prepped for the parade. Where they'd all be presented to the adoring public as...

Well. Tributes. Just call it what it was.

(Even if it feels like your soul is leaking.)

It wasn't so bad though, not really. Three stylists whirred about her, combing her hair and buffing her nails and Eponine couldn't really help but smile. It felt too good to be pampered. To be fawned over. If she closed her eyes really, really tight, she could imagine that she was finally being treated like the princess she always wanted to be.

They worked diligently, though - this "team" she supposed - moving about quietly, so in-tuned to one another that speaking was barely necessary. So she had spent most of the morning with her eyes closed, practically purring as they exfoliated off the remnants of years lived in the grime of District 12.

Then someone's hands were on her back, coaxing her into a sitting position and peeling the dress away from her back.

"Ick," someone announced, tracing a finger over the hatch marks seared into her shoulder blades. Another pair of hands arranged the mass of her hair over her right shoulder. "That won't do."

She thought about saying something about that. About how it would have to do because it was her and they can make her skin shine like the stars, but they would leave her scars alone. They were her companions in the darkness. The words of her story, written in mistakes and blood and they were all she'd ever have left.

Then a metallic crash echoed through the room. Raised voices. A thump that had to be a body hitting a wall. The tinkling of glass and plastic shattering to the floor. Her gaze edged closer to the hem of the curtain when her back went wet and freezing cold. Agonizing, bitter cold.

A scream tried to lose itself from her lips, but got lodged in her chest instead, coming out as a gasp while the liquid slithered down her spine. It was that certain, awful cold that almost felt like it was boiling. Maybe it was. Hard to tell. The only thing really blazing through her mind was the pain wracking her body.

Just when she was about to leap off the table and run as fast as her legs could take her, a powder was dutifully applied. It left the liquid crispy, crystallizing itself against her skin. A stylist started scraping away with a sponge, smoothing away the remnants of whatever it was they had done.

One of them glided a hand across her shoulder blades, the new smoothness of her skin feeling foreign under the soft, pudgy fingers. Her heart skipped a beat and fluttered against her chest.

This team had taken away her scars.

(Not her team, never hers.)

Alone in a room full of people, without her story. What did she have left?

* * *

She wondered what Montparnasse would be wearing. If it'd be nearly as cheesy as what they were forcing her into.

Well, 'forcing' wasn't exactly the right word. She kind of loved it. Her dress was coal black. Crimson tulle peeked out from beneath the floor length hemline. Which was supposed to be the fire coming off the coals? Maybe? It was all pretty lame, she decided whenever she thought about it for more than just a second. But she didn't, most of the time Eponine just rubbed her hands against the silk and hummed to herself.

Two stylist fought against the curl of her hair, smoothing it back into a tasteful bun, while a female stylist with white hair and green skin fussed with the most interesting part, the back of dress.

The neckline was pretty boring, the buttery fabric laid against her throat and collarbone, but, oh, how it draped over her shoulders and down her back, revealing the newly smoothed skin over her spine. It barely stopped at there, continuously sneaking lower and lower and...

"This isn't going to do," the green skin woman huffed. "She's not going to pass code if we can't get this pinned up somehow."

"What code?" Eponine asked. She looked at them, amber eyes expectant, waiting for the answer that would come when they stopped wondering where she found her voice. They're mouths were in various forms of ajar and if she were a weaker person, she might have felt like she had done something wrong. Spoken out of turn. But Eponine Thenardier never heard a pitch in her voice she didn't like.

"The Product-"

The male stylist hissed through his perfect teeth. "They aren't supposed to know about that."

Eponine shrugged, attempting to stay upright as one of the stylists yanked a big headband affixed with what she assumed had to be a spot light over her head. District 12 was the mining district, after all.

"What's the big deal?" She asked. "I'm going to die anyway."

The stylists exchanged a few wide eyed glances, taken aback by dark words spoken so plainly, hanging in the air like a sweltering black hole. They went back to work, pinning and pulling, but the male stylist moved to face Eponine while he applied her eye makeup: a thick bar of of black across her eyes, spanning temple to temple in tribal visage.

"Its the Production Code," he murmured, centimeters from her face while never quite looking her in the eye. "Just a set of guidelines to protect the sanctity of the Hunger Games. Ensure good morals are being taught to the children of Panem. Head Gamemaster Javert is very strict about them."

She'd never know if the irony was lost on them or not because she couldn't stop chuckling long enough to ask. It was a fight to get her to clamp her lips closed long enough to swath them in a velvety scarlet color. And even then she was snorting with the effort.

They were about to broadcast mere kids being torn limb from limb by their peers in crisp definition. Blood and bone in all its technicolor glory. No one wanted to miss a drop.

(But you button up that shirt, dear, no one wants to see that.)

She laughed until they shoved her out the door and into the crowds.

* * *

The buzz from the audience was already vibrating the walls around them and the Tributes had yet to even step foot on their chariots. It was a scene, that's for sure, a storybook blue sky rushing through the oval shaped door the precession would soon depart from. There was so much happening, it didn't even feel real. Real life didn't happen like this. Certainly not her life.

It was harder not getting swept into the whirlwind than it was to forget what it all meant.

Montparnasse was already waiting by their chariot, one hand braced on the black metal while he picked at something on the bottom of his shoe. He looked quite dapper, she had to admit, all lean dark lines. And, she noticed, he had already thrown his lovely spot light on the ground.

She made her way over, sidestepping the workers and Tributes as they rushed to and fro in the most graceful way she could muster. Which wasn't much, considering.

"Hey, there," she cooed at her partner, swishing her skirts. "Aren't these amazing?"

"I suppose so," he turned around, fussing at the high collar of his shirt. "Nothing compared to the Careers, but not as bad as our Tributes usually get, at least. After I made some adjustments." The corner of his mouth quirked at the sight of her headband.

"I see that. Help me get mine off, 'Parnasse?" With an eyeroll and a huff he leaned in to aid her. "It's all pinned in. I think they would'a put a padlock on it if they could've figured it out, like how fast do they think those horses are going, I mean, really-" Éponine continued on while Montparnasse extracted a few pins in the deft way only a pickpocket knows.

Finally, he took her chin in his hands and mouthed "stop," before removing the rest of the apparatus from her head. It clattered to the ground with a clang forgotten the moment it left Éponine's ears. She tossed her head, hair products valiantly attempting to keep her bun in place.

"What do you think now?" She hopped backwards, twirling about to show off every angle of her dress. It was intoxicating, for one second, just being a girl excited to wear expensive clothes, until her outstretched arm clocked someone in the face.

"Watch where you're going," the face ground out. Éponine started to apologize until she saw the sour look arranging his aristocratic features. Short, dark hair. Slate colored military inspired toga. Had to be a District 2 Career. He had a look in his eyes that reminded her of the Head Peacekeeper at home. It stopped her in her tracks.

"Well, aren't you going to apologize?"

She couldn't stop a sneer from lifting her upper lip. "No."

He kept her gaze for longer then was necessary before muscling past her, his body hitting her shoulder like a brick wall. A trip and a yelp later, and Éponine was on the ground. Montparnasse sidestepped nimbly out of the way, already brushing off the scant amount of dirt that had pillowed onto his trousers.

Her heart sunk just a little when he paid her no mind. She began to stand up, but the sound of ripping fabric beckoned her to sit back down. The dress was now sporting a thigh high slit and a new wayward lock of hair dangled in front of her eyes.

A hand slid into view, long fingered and outstretched. Her mouth fell open as she followed the hand with her eyes, up the arm to the open, handsome face. His over-plush lips were moving and it took her longer than it should have to realize he was speaking to her.

"...Uh, do you?"

"Hm?"

"Do you need help? Standing up, I mean."

"Oh, yeah. Sure. I kinda ripped my dress. Or, well, I didn't, if you catch my drift." Éponine took his hand and relied on him, probably a little more than she should have, to set her on her feet again.

"I know, I'm so, so sorry. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, you saw that prick?"

He nodded his head, the light illuminating the serenity of the green in his irises. "A few of us were- Well, Theodule's always been a bit of a prick." A sheepish smile slid over his mouth as Éponine seemed to miss her turn to speak. Then she snapped her fingers and pointed at the guy's face.

"You! You're that guy from District 5, huh? That was quite an ordeal, wasn't it, Lover Boy? I mean, I didn't want to go either but it looked like you had a little more to stick around for. I mean, she didn't seem to want to... I mean, I guess that's your girlfriend, but I mean, I can't blame her. I mean you, Lover Boy. You. I can't blame you or-"

"Marius," he stammered out, loudly, if only to stop her speech. "You can call me, Marius."

"I'm Éponine-"

She was interrupted once more, this time by a tall girl with dark curly hair and a near frenzied energy grabbing Marius by the shoulder. "Hey, it's almost time," the girl exploded, drumming her hands against his back. "Come on, Lover Boy."

Marius' eye roll was a thing of beauty, with a burst of a sigh as his body was shook by his partner. "Courf, please, I'm coming," and with those words he was whisked away, throwing a haphazard wave over his shoulder to Éponine.

And she watched him, the only one who deemed it appropriate to help her out, disappear into the throng.

* * *

(What she didn't see was the broad shouldered girl from District 2 give Theodule a shove that upset his balance and sent him careening into their chariot.)

(And she didn't see the blonde from District 1 saunter by, quiet as can be, dropping his heel into the back of Theodule's knee without a hitch in his step. No one stopped to help the asshole pick himself up from the dirt.)

(The girl who knew everything didn't quite catch that.)

* * *

The parade went like this: No one cared. At least by the time District 12 stepped out. The audience was just as washed out as the air above them, an overcast rushing in and chilling everything it touched. A small pop of sound trailed after them, but never before or around.

It could've been disheartening, but it was more funny than anything.

She laughed so hard she cried.

* * *

It was a long day, and she was thankful when she was finally able to find a moment to herself, lounging in the dining room in her dress. Even with the tear and the dirt, it was still the prettiest thing she'd ever worn. So she was enjoying it, feet propped up on the table, a bowl of cherries in her lap. It felt decadent. Frivolous. And she liked that.

It wasn't long though, before Montparnasse found her and solitude. Without a word he strode over and tried to reaching into the bowl, only to receive a prompt slap on the wrist.

"Back off," she said, chewing slowly, voice sour. Bubble of tranquility effectively popped, she removed her feet from the table with a thump, eyes never leaving the bowl. "I don't share."

"Since when," he almost whined, a certain type of purr he always tested out whenever trying to talk Éponine into something. "You always share with me."

Her hand shot out over the top of the bowl, successfully barring him from attempting to get at the contents again. "No. You don't get any."

Crossing his arms, he chuckled to himself. "What do you mean?" He asked before making another pass, "Stop being so stingy."

Éponine moved the bowl until it was just out of his reach. "I'm not being stingy," she countered. "I just don't share things with jerks."

"I've always been a jerk, don't act like it's anything new." He made one last grab before giving up, the shadows engulfing his face while he began to leave the room.

But Éponine couldn't leave it be, so she took another cherry and spoke as she nibbled at it. "You could have helped me out earlier today."

Genuine surprise opened his eyes. "What are you talking about?" He strode back to her side and she smirked to herself. Pressing his buttons wasn't easy, so it was always nice when she was able elicit the response she wished.

"When that asshole knocked me to the ground earlier," she explained, dropping the bowl into her lap and meeting his gaze. "You could've helped me out."

"Helped you out?" Montparnasse grinned his taunting grin - a predatory thing in the dark - the front row of teeth angled inward, giving his incisors a vampiric slant. "Yeah, I didn't do anything. I was worrying about myself. And when we're in the arena, you'll do the same, too."

Betrayal coiled in her stomach, the truth in it putting a vice around her throat. It hurt, and she wanted to return the favor. "Marius helped me out," she said, noting Montparnasse's blank stare at the name. "You know, the really cute guy from District 5."

A beat. He blinked, leaning in, voice dangerously quiet. "You wanna know how I'll help you? I will drop you so quick, you won't even get a chance to gasp, to cry out, to say 'Oh God, why are you doing this to me.' Because the answer will be to save my neck. And you know it." He grabbed a few cherries from the now unguarded bowl and popped one in his mouth, holding it between his teeth as he plucked out the stem. "Nothing more than that, sweetheart."

And then he left. And she was alone.


End file.
